Treasures and Propellors
by spacefemme
Summary: Scrooge gives his niece a bit of encouragement.


Children were simple. In short bursts, of course. Hortense and Quackmore knew this, and so they and Scrooge were all just fine with the twins staying at the manor for a couple of nights. He knew how to keep people fed, see that they got to sleep on time, and keep the doors locked of any rooms that were off limits. Maybe tell them a story if they asked - they _were_ family, after all. And the kids were happy enough exploring the parts of the house they were allowed in and playing with the toys from the backpack they'd brought along with them. Already scattered on the floors were, among other things, a wooden toy sailboat, some white thing with a bunch of buttons and a small video screen, and a remote controller for something Scrooge didn't see anywhere, but hadn't tripped on and so didn't particularly care about locating.

The kids were fine, for the most part. The most trouble they gave him was hollering at each other while playing or ignoring their silverware at dinner. He'd been the same way in his youth. He was prepared for absolutely anything they could do to him or his house.

By the time nine o'clock rolled around, Donald had gotten all cleaned up and tucked himself into bed, but Della was nowhere to be seen. Scrooge figured she was either hiding or had fallen asleep in another part of the house. Whatever the case, he was responsible for putting her to bed, so he set out looking. He must have searched a dozen rooms on two levels before he heard a ruckus coming from the kitchen. He swung the door open to see her scrambling through pots and pans, crawling further into the cabinet.

"Lass," he said, pulling her out by the arm. "It's a bit late for you to be fixin' a snack."

"That's not what I'm doing," she said, wriggling free of his grasp. "I'm looking for my - for one of my toys." She crossed her arms. "...You didn't do anything with it, did you, Uncle Scrooge?"

"Can't say tha' I did. You must've misplaced it; you can find it in the mornin', now let's get you to -"

"No!" Della yelped, startling Scrooge. "I have to make sure I have it before we leave tomorrow! Mom won't let me get another one if I lose it!"

Scrooge raised an eyebrow. "Why's that?"

Della sighed, "She doesn't know I play with it. She got it for Donald. She says this stuff's not for girls."

"What isn't for girls?"

She paused, contemplating whether he could be trusted, before muttering, "Planes...n' flying..."

He grinned. "Ah, so yer an aviator, are ya?"

"I'm gonna be. But people keep saying boys're better at it."

"Bah!" He waved her off. "No efficacy in that kinda thinkin'. Every single pilot for McDuck Air is the best I could find - whatever they are. S'the only way to run a business." He handed her one of the pots she'd knocked onto the floor and she started putting them back.

"Then how come so many people don't do that?"

"Who knows, but it keeps me on top, doesn't it?" He chuckled.

Della smiled, "Hey, I could fly for you someday!"

"See, Della, the people who fly for _me_ aren't quite as skilled. They hafta be willing to go to some dangerous places. I'm not exactly a tourist, in the traditional sense. Lot of more dignified pilots won't go."

She furrowed her brows as she picked up the last piece of cookware. "Well I don't wanna be a pilot just so I can fly people out to visit their grandparents in the middle of nowhere! Where would you need to go?"

"Let's see - Barneo, Borneo, Brazil, Japan, Singapore, Antarctica, Uruguay, Paraguay, Ronguay, Chile - where _wouldn't_ I go is the real question."

"I'd fly to _all_ those places. I wanna see all those jungles, and islands, and find treasure, like you do! And I bet I'll be better at it than whoever's flying you now!"

"I should hope so, but it's goin' to be quite a lot of work. You'll need to know -"

"Navigation, languages, physics, engineering, and have good memorization skills, and not hurt my eyesight."

"Ha! That's the McDuck in ya. I don't know how it skipped over yer mother." He started toward the door, Della following close behind. "But she's right that you need to go to sleep on time. Let's get you up to bed."

"But I haven't found my plane!"

"It'll turn up before you leave. Now go on up." He nodded toward the steps.

"Okay," she conceded. "Uncle Scrooge?"

"Yes?"

She hugged him tight. "Thanks."

"Of course." He patted her on the head gently. "Goodnight, Della darlin'."

She let go and bounded up the stairs. "Goodnight!"

A soft smile remained on his face as he went downstairs to sit in the parlor for a bit.

"Watch your step," a voice called out, and Scrooge looked down to see that he was about to slip on a plastic airplane, painted red and blue, with tiny wheels at the bottom. Mrs. Beakley had already rushed over to pick it up from under him. Her daughter was away at college now, but the reflexes she'd honed from raising a small child hadn't left.

"Let me see that," he said. She handed it to him and went back to dusting. He looked over it for a moment and gave the propellor a little spin, then set it on the coffee table and turned to go back up the steps.

In the attic was an old brown leather aviator helmet with goggles - still intact, even after all this time. It hadn't been touched since the Second World War - not for any sentimental reasons, just because nobody there had any use for it.

In the morning, it appeared, dusted off and cleaned, in an unzipped backpack, along with a little red and blue airplane with its propellor sticking out.


End file.
